


Lux

by bowblade



Series: Interregnum [2]
Category: Old Kingdom - Garth Nix
Genre: Gen, M/M, NaNoWriMo, NaNoWriMo2019
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2020-08-05
Packaged: 2020-12-31 15:56:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 16,921
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21148331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bowblade/pseuds/bowblade
Summary: Abhorsen-in-Waiting. Inheritance to the one who puts the Dead back to rest. Light and shadow bound together. A life laid out and path not quite chosen.Becoming the Abhorsen-in-Waiting would change him; it was only a matter of how much.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> Guess who's back again to write more longfic about minor characters...
> 
> (Hopefully not as long as the last, but given how much I have left of my notes whilst I'm writing this introduction: laughs at myself.)
> 
> _Lux_ has been on my mind in some form or another since I was in the middle of _Interregnum_, because I really wanted to write Terciel when he was younger and less together, at the point in his life when he was most confused and struggling against his assigned path... and he would be a similar age to both Sabriel and Lirael in their respective stories which would be a nice parallel to make. That and I could write about him and his first lost love and (maybe) do a little more exploration with universe concepts as I'm really skating on canonical thin ice at this point, hah.
> 
> This story takes place (and is a prequel to) Interregnum, with the bulk of it taking place roughly eight or nine years prior. Reading Interregnum first is not entirely necessary, but there will be references on occasion and it is my ending benchmark for Terciel's development and personality. Lux is definitely intended for second.
> 
> The prologue is set post _Goldenhand_\- there are a few minor spoilers in Lirael's thought process, but no overarching plot details) - and immediately following Interregnum's (final) epilogue - it completely spoils that if you haven't read it already.
> 
> Much like Interregnum, a bulk of Lux has been written during NaNoWriMo as a wip and is not yet finished, and will be worked on more slowly thereafter. Everything you see at this time is unbeta'd and edited the once; once I finish the whole thing I'll go through it again for another rewrite. I don't have a length estimate for Lux as it can be as long as I want it to be, really... so we'll see if it takes another two years for me to complete, haha. 
> 
> Lastly, if you're returning from Interregnum - hello! It's nice to see you again. Thanks for joining me on this ride!

Her sister's summons was part lessons, part sociable, but Lirael had been much too distracted to focus upon either of those concepts.

It was not that she did not have things she wished to say to Sabriel, or that Sabriel had nothing to teach her – indeed, she valued Sabriel's wisdom and practicality, a different kind of instruction than simply reading about the art in which their bloodline had perfected… 

To read words was one thing, but to _see_ it in a well versed hand was another. It was a type of teaching Lirael had never had in the Glacier, denied the Sight and any sort of lesson that went along with it, and much of what she had learned of the Charter and its secrets, she had taught herself. True, to suddenly gain an instructor had made Lirael somewhat overeager to prove herself and sometimes equally as impatient, but her sister never seemed wearied by it. If anything, Sabriel seemed glad that it was something she was finally able to fully share with another, and, as unorthodox as it was, a means in which they could bond.

Lirael's distraction today was not from impatience, and neither was it from the desire to see Nick, which never really went away (he was always distracting, even if he did not mean to be. To love someone was very strange). 

It wasn't due to her niece and nephew either, the prior keen to have a tea party or somesuch with her (which Lirael had put off, several times; she liked Ellimere well enough, but her presence was overbearing and big enough for the both of them), and as for the latter, Lirael would have to find some excuse to intrude upon his tower, as she had not seen him in the palace in at least two weeks or more (was Sam more adept at solitude than she was, or did he now just have an excuse to microfocus on Wallmaker creations? Probably a little of both). 

And neither was it her lessons in swordmanship with the Belisaere guard and occasionally Touchstone himself, or her archery training, or things someone or anyone piped up with thinking that the newfound Abhorsen-in-Waiting should know, and neither was it anything or anyone else in the palace. 

No. Her distraction was here with her now, in front of her; Sabriel herself.

It was spring, and that had brought with it Sabriel's birthday. Lirael knew this not from her sister having said so, but from the fact everyone else _had_. Belisaere did not celebrate their Abhorsen Queen's birthday per say, but they knew; the palace staff and officials _certainly_ knew, as highlighted by the lavish confectionary and baked goods that were her sister's favourites appearing more frequently in the kitchens, coupled with gifts and messages arriving aplenty – even from beyond the Wall in Ancelstierre! – and least of all Sam, who had surfaced briefly in a panic thinking he had missed it, only to be a day or so early and for Ellimere to laugh and simultaneously scold him that he had better put in an appearance at their mother's birthday dinner, whenever that was, as her Abhorsen duties did not always fit to timetable, or else.

That final sentiment had not been directed at her… but even so, Lirael had felt a little guilty. She had prepared no present – and not because she didn't want to. Lirael really, _really_ wanted to, in a way she didn't yet know how to quantify. 

It wasn't even something she had felt inclined towards doing until recently, not even when her path in life was first revealed and forever changed. It was a strange ache, a distant melancholy. A birthday for her had always been such a lonely, solitary affair – another year without the Sight. No father, no mother, no Sight. And now? No father, no mother, no Sight, but a newfound family and birthright. She knew all her newfound family's birthdays and she _could_ do things, _could_ give things, but she… didn't.

Hadn't. 

Baubles and knick-knacks were not things she gave. Gifts themselves were not things she gave, and neither had she been the receiver of many for much of her life. To be a librarian was secondary, but at least it was reason. What did you give Clayr who had received the greatest gift, the highest honour? She didn't know. What did you give royalty? What did you give an elder sister who was your mentor who was simultaneously the Abhorsen and a Queen? Together it was an even greater impossibility to know, and Lirael had ruminated upon it for months until the date had come and gone and swiftly passed her by.

And it was worse, somehow, that Ellimere had not asked her what her gift would be, that none of her new family seemed to mind that she was not a part of the exchange. Not just for her sister's birthday; but for theirs, too.

That morning, Lirael was still not sure about a to-be, belated gift when she went to meet Sabriel for brunch, and had elected instead to put it out of her mind. During, they'd agreed to take her lessons in Death later in the day – there was a hamlet to attend to first several hours away, and upon their return to Belisaere, a recently unearthed channel offshooting from the reservoir before the palace that Sabriel had wished to look into for herself, what with the guard too spooked and the Charter there all but unpredictable, and with Touchstone away, had concluded upon asking her second to join her, and between the two of them, time could be spared before returning for a brief lesson or two… but their conversation had not been all business. And as they left for the Paperwing hangar, Sabriel had touched upon a subject that had unintentionally given Lirael an idea for a gift at last.

The idea was the real distraction, in truth. It was a gift that was… it would be more meaningful than a trinket that would only ever be looked upon with minor gratification, whilst also much more sentimental than just her continued company which Sabriel appeared happy enough to have. And yet—

Was it her place? Would it be unwanted? It was something only _she_, Lirael, Abhorsen-in-Waiting and Daughter of the Clayr could do, but to do so would not be entirely selfless. It would serve herself too, at least a little, with a singular curiosity that was something she had only recently begun to entertain.

"Lirael," Sabriel said, intercepting her thoughts. Lirael realised Sabriel had, some time ago, prompted her to speak the words that would open the First Gate, and she had not. Well… she had intended to, raised her hands, opened her mouth, and then – nothing. Distracted. Death was not the most apt place to be carried away by thought.

And yet really it was unsurprising. The gift she wished to give was something she could only do here in Death, and with it, the person she wished to remember.

Sabriel had told her about what her father – their father – had left for her, drawing and message both, and that Mogget had at last reunited them. But it was only a voice, a relic, and although her own offering would be not much different… Sabriel would be able to _see_ him again, if only briefly.

And Lirael had to wonder. She had not had the time to question Terciel… hadn't really cared to after knowing his identity and having the daydreamed circumstances as to her parents' meeting and courtship dashed. 

But that was only a moment, a brief window to his life. And the curiosity had stirred. Something she idly thought about every now and then when she read accounts in his hand, when she spent any time at all in the House, and always an undercurrent in Sabriel's presence.

And now there was a way, a possibility and gift together, that had garnered all her considerations.

"Did you ever do this?" Lirael at last asked, quite out of nowhere. "With your – our – Terciel, I mean."

Sabriel did not seem perturbed by the unanticipated question, or even surprised by it: her father had been on her mind much as of late. To some degree he always lingered, but the portrait, and his final story for her to hear about her mother… it had stirred up feelings from long ago, emotions she had never laid to rest with him taken from her after she had spent so much of herself fighting so that he would not. They had shared in their identity and duty so briefly in the end, their paths only intersecting long enough for him to pass the torch unto her.

Her exhale was not quite a sigh, and nor was it a dismissal; Sabriel cast her eyes downward at the river in thought as she moved away from the waterfall that was the First Gate, doubling back towards life. Just a little… but enough.

"Not like this," she answered in the direction of life, turning with practiced footwork to face her sister. "When I was much younger, on my first visits to Death… yes. The experience was… not as serious as it ought, or could have been. Not that it was not a serious undertaking, but it was something to learn and time to share, and never in his teachings did he make me feel pressured, as the last of the line."

This time Sabriel did sigh, and she smiled, a brief fondness amidst missed memories. "He was very good at that. Being at Wyverly and the distance from it all helped, for certain. But what I mean to say is… though we walked Death together as Abhorsen and in-Waiting, that was not how it felt. It was as father and daughter. Only once did we travel the river together in that way."

She did not elaborate, but Lirael knew. Of all the questions she had not asked aloud, to any of them, this had been one answered indirectly, having learned when Sabriel had risen to her station at a similar age as to what she was now. Younger, even. Younger than Ellimere and Sam.

Lirael hesitated. She was feeling a different sort of guilt now, for prying where she should not, even if Sabriel had offered the information. Private affairs were that, private; she did not have much experience with other people's. And yet... 

Her current guilt was not so much for having asked, but that she did not want to stop, now she had started. Now she had an _in_… and if she did not offer it to Sabriel now, today, when would she ever work up the nerve to do it again?

But Lirael was also not without feeling; she was not without her own painful memories of those that had raised her. 

Lirael resisted the temptation to lower her head, to hide behind a familiar curtain of hair. "I should not have asked."

Sabriel shook her head, lightly. "I did bring him to mind, this morning," she acquiesced. "And I suppose I— expected for you to ask about him. Eventually."

Lirael pulled her lips together, taught. That was as much permission as any, to _ask_, even if that was not where her thoughts were headed at the end of it. Sabriel could tell her much about when Terciel was her father, but there was more that could be known, that only she could access. Could See.

"Here?"

"Not here, no," Sabriel mused, smiling. "But if there is any place all Abhorsens share, it is Death. As good a place as any, I suppose." 

Despite her words, Sabriel did not over-relax her stance, even as she moved – with some deliberation – to sheathe her sword, signifying an end to any lesson (not that Lirael could remember what that lesson was to be about, only that it was not in the First Precinct if she had been meant to open the First Gate). Saraneth remained in Sabriel's hand, however, the bell turned over to still the clapper with nimble fingers, still easily reached. Just because Death was quiet at present and they were in the First Precinct, and that there being _two_ Abhorsens here today would dissuade anything from causing trouble, it did not make it safe. 

Lirael's own hands had this whole time been empty, she realised. Perhaps she should follow her sister's lead and take a bell. Hers would always be Kibeth, if so. But she knew Kibeth by heart, could bring her in an instant, so she did not. Instead she only absently patted a pocket, to ensure the Dark Mirror was still there. She could lead to that.

Settled, her sister's smile had never faded, always encouraging. "Ask away."

Lirael opened her mouth and closed it, and again, words dying in her throat each time. How? How could she go anywhere with that? Leaping right in was probably for the best, yet… she still didn't know how much Sabriel knew of Terciel before. Much like the Clayr's Sight, to See something of Terciel in the past… she would need to narrow it down.

There were too many plans in her head, and on top of that, the not quite a curiosity had been coaxed. Her, no, their father… what did _she_ want to know?

"I've only seen him closer in age to you than to me," Lirael said, growing sheepish as the words tumbled out, her point very successfully mangled… and, retrospectively, a poor way to put it.

Fortunately for Lirael's reddening face, Sabriel laughed. Any comment as to her age did not phase her, yet that was only part of it – this was the third time she was effectively introducing her father to a family member from what she remembered, and the prior two times she had reasonably predicted what those questions would be. Lirael was clearly thinking ahead to something else. 

"That is just as well. You can say it," she said, smile retained to prove she did not mind. "My view of him is something of the same. Older, never young. Wise and never foolish, only ever looking forward, never back. As a father, I remember him as indomitable… a fortress I did not consider to be weathered, for he was good at hiding it. For my sake."

"And… before that? Before he was a feather, during the interregnum?"

Sabriel mused for a moment, pulling her lips taught in a familiar motion, as Lirael had. "He never did say much about himself," she decided. "Not in detail. To me, he was always 'Abhorsen'. For the longest time I thought that was his name, not a title. It was some time after I – took it myself, I suppose, even unknowingly – that I learned otherwise.

"It was not that he meant to be secretive. The interregnum is a sad story, and much of my father's life was troubled. He planned for the end and the restoration, made waves to ensure it would happen… but he never saw it for himself. All that and after was not… easy, but at least there was reward. For him it was never progress, only ever being able to react… only waiting for the time when what he and my mother had started could be finished, when Touchstone and I could begin."

She trailed off, lost to memory. The restoration had taken its toll on her, on her and Touchstone both: they had given more of themselves than was perhaps wise in their efforts. Likewise she had also missed a great deal of time as a mother, as a wife, time spent chasing the Dead and overworking, to shielding them, to wondering when would be the right time to pull Sam into it all, and the guilt her father had in no doubt felt from the very beginning…

"But that is all circumspect, I suppose," she finished, with another sigh, this one far heavier. "I don't _know_ for certain. Perhaps I am not the best person to tell you."

Lirael shook her head. "No," she said quietly. "No. That's given me… more than I knew of him already, as a person." There was one undercurrent in Sabriel's words that stuck with her, that resonated with a sympathy, an understanding almost – that Terciel had known what it was to be alone. And to do all that he did, without reward? That took a strength that Lirael was not so certain she could persevere with.

Her thoughts wandered. Maybe this was right, the right time to extend what she could do, to fill the cracks that neither of them would ever know, would never learn of otherwise, only ever left able to wonder at the emotion buried far beneath finely scripted words – save if they asked Mogget, perhaps, but there was no telling when his next visit would be and if he would ever be willing.

She had to do this. She had to.

"Sabriel," Lirael said, attaching no title or moniker, with only a slight reticence at the informality, even with her sister's repeated insistence she could address her as such. "I wanted – there was something else I wanted to ask. About father, but also, for you, and—"

_For me._ She stopped, struggling to get the words exactly right. To be direct with as little words as possible was one thing, and something she had long learned and mastered, but this was different. This was not about books belonging in their proper places.

Regardless, Sabriel did not seem to mind waiting for her to work her way there mentally, and neither did she interrupt. It was not a chiding look she gave her, but a patient one… a look that Lirael had seen her give her family before, but also entirely different, new. Sabriel looked at everyone she loved a little differently, now that Lirael thought about it, and she kept the distinction between her and her children well, despite their closeness in age. Sabriel looked at her as an equal, a sister, friend, apprentice… as family. 

It was strange, really, that in a Glacier filled with cousins and relatives, it was not until now that Lirael felt she had a _true_ family… there had been the Disreputable Dog of course, but back then she had thought the Dog of her own making, and it was not quite the same. Maybe it was better to say she had not understood, or believed it, that she was loved by those linked by blood or otherwise. That she belonged. 

Perhaps that was the heart of it – why giving a gift was so important. Her sister's family, however small and fragile, had wordlessly accepted and embraced her as one of their own without question in a way that still surprised her. Where there had been so little, now there was so much: a family with her sister and her nephew and niece, and in Touchstone too; in Nick; Sanar and Ryelle, who had watched out for her in their way; and no longer yearning for the impossible, for being markedly different, there was the librarians, her family too.

"Your birthday," Lirael managed at last. "I wanted to give you something."

Simple. All along, the right way.

A solitary eyebrow raise was her response, with it was a hint of surprise… and a flicker of affection in that smile, perhaps placed there by her imagination. "You do not have to give me anything, Lirael."

"I know," Lirael said quickly, chasing away the doubt, the intrusive thought that no one had ever expected that of her for her whole life, and would not start now. That was not what Sabriel meant. "I know, but I— I _want_ to. But you're a Queen, and I've never been a present giver. I never wanted to be, I wanted my birthdays to be forgotten, and then I thought about it and what was best, and then this morning, I finally had an idea, and now…"

She didn't think Sabriel would say no, but… this? To remember their father as he had been, when he was young and without care? She herself likely never would have considered it had it not struck her as a plausible gift, had Sabriel not mentioned his message, and well… 

It was never easy to close a door again, once you opened it. You had to follow that path to the end, wherever it led.

That settled her, gave her the confidence to reveal what she had hurried back to her room for to find, gaining a stitch and a gurgling sensation in the stomach for her efforts, all so that she would arrive at the Paperwing hangar at the agreed time.

Lirael reached into her pocket, and pulled out the Dark Mirror. Here in Death, its surface was murky, clouded over. A drop of blood and it would reveal what she wished to see.

"As Remembrancer, you can see him again," Lirael said, to the mirror. Whatever look was to cross Sabriel's face at such an idea – speechlessness or stupor, or otherwise – was not for her to see. She did not offer reunion, but it was more than what Mogget had brought her, although it did build upon it. Mogget had brought his voice, not his visage: not his _past_, something that had been truly lost. "And I— I have seen him before, this way. It would be easy for me to do."

Unbeknownst to Lirael, Sabriel's face was blank at her offer as she processed each word, one by one. And again, one more time, as she re-evaluated them for certainty she had heard them right. Not much rattled her these days, but this… Sabriel could feel that distant ache again, ghosts of her past and her line. 

Her mother who she had never known save her father's stories… and his final story of her, all the details he had never shared, kept safe with Mogget all these years… she knew more of Nerysiel now than she had ever dared to hope. And then there was her father, whom she had known, but only what he wished for her to know. Terciel was still a mystery.

But not anymore, according to Lirael. She could know, could find some solace, some understanding, some—

Combined, the two would be gifts like no other.

The silence stretched. Time passed, indiscernible in Death. Lirael kept her eyes glued downward to the mirror, thumbs lightly pressed against its edge, waiting for Sabriel to decide.

Movement, not threatening, breached her view – her sister's hands, now both empty, coupled with a lax grip against her wrists. Lirael looked at them, and then up, to Sabriel's face.

Her expression was resolute and calm, yet somehow, entirely emotional. Her decision made.

"It would be nice to know him," she said.


	2. Guardian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> "Rems it's been like ten months since you updated this"
> 
> Yes but this chapter is 13k words (that's more than a tenth of what I wrote for Nano last November) and editing it took forever and I probably should have split it up but Terciel is only this age for this one chapter as it's setting the scene and finally I am _free_ and next time Terciel will meet one of the loves of his life so we're getting there. Slowly. Very slowly.
> 
> (Also in the time between then and now, Garth Nix has announced a novel for Terciel [and Elinor, presumably Sabriel's mother], which I honestly though he never would, which is why Interregnum exists. I am one part shook and one part very excited to see the differences. I am, however, still going to endeavour to finish Lux off in its entirety, so no worries on that front!)

Today was a beginning, but also an end.

It was inevitable that it would one day come to this, yet even so the Abhorsen had wished it could stray a while longer.

And the circumstance as to its coming was equally as far from her expectations. Of course the day would come that her nephew would arrive at the Abhorsen's House to live with her and begin his training in earnest… but not like this. Not following the death of not one but _both_ of his parents, little more than a month between them. Her nephew's father, her own younger brother, had been lost to an accident, and his mother's health had declined in her heartbreak, not wishing to be without him. The Abhorsen was not surprised her sister-in-law had traversed the river in pursuit of her husband; they had been childhood sweethearts in their beginning, together for a great many years. In the end she had made a choice for him over her child.

It was almost a callous way to think of it, and yet, even if it was the truth, it did not paint the full picture. Consideration had to be given to the equal truth that the son they had left behind in life was loved, _so_ loved, more than her nephew would even know: the Abhorsen herself had been privy to the years her brother and his wife were left childless, the quiet despair and acceptance as they aligned themselves with the finality that there would only ever be the other. And then the joy as they were at long last blessed… and perhaps the two years of happiness that came with it, until it became clear that the sweet boy who smiled and laughed and fell asleep in their arms without a care in the world would become the next Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

It wouldn't be until the boy was six that the Abhorsen had checked for his aptitude in it, but that was only formality. Terciel would be the next Abhorsen by virtue of the fact that he was the only one left.

Not back then, not quite. But the bloodline _was_ dying. When the Abhorsen herself had been young she had had a smattering of relatives across the entirety of the Old Kingdom, and though far fewer than the days of Hillfair, enough. It was why she had never married nor had children of her own, regardless of lack of interest in that sort of thing; she had not needed to. But in the past few decades, most of those same pockets of Abhorsens were now gone – taken in winter by growing populations of Dead, victims to accident, old age, occasionally sickness. There had been a great many accidents, all told, and whence they had been reasonably many, then there was not. Even her next, would-be apprentice, harboured by a cousin, had not survived outside of their teenage years – although proud, the remaining Abhorsen were not so foolish as to their lowering numbers than to not share at least some basic knowledge of the Abhorsen art between them, though none were proficient enough to assist and act upon it as her second, and she would have taken over that training herself given time – and another with the raw skill never came, the universe and perhaps the Charter thinking itself clever for the final born, the youngest in their line to be the one with the most potential.

Regardless, as the prior year had drawn to a close, there had been herself, her brother and his wife, their son, and a few other elderly members of the Abhorsens remaining. And now, as winter released its grip upon the Old Kingdom and the springwater flooded the Ratterlin, there were only two.

Worse yet, the death of her nephew's parents was news that had found her when she unable to attend to it. Winters were always long and harsh, and the Dead more brazen and wicked, what with the Old Kingdom being in a state of decline; she, the Clayr and the Regency were what held the Kingdom together, but that was a mere thread-hold, only a fraction of what it should have been. As it was, the news of her brother and sister-in-law's passing had been following her, from outpost to village and back again, only for the trail to end in a very tired Message Hawk and her torn between duty and family – although in this instance, they had in fact been one and the same.

It was fortunate, then, that plans had been in place for this actuality, although the Abhorsen had never dreamed they would need to be used. The plan had always been for Terciel to be brought to the House, under her care and tutelage, at the age of… well, his parents had been reluctant to pin a year to that, but the time they shared ahead with him was far, far shorter than what was already past, and last she had seen her nephew, he was no longer quite a boy, and the Abhorsen had reckoned persuasion over the coming year would likely be the deciding factor. It would not have been a grand undertaking, no procession of any kind: she imagined his parents would wish to join him at the Abhorsen's House, for a time, jarring as that thought had been. The Abhorsen was so used to the House being _empty_ that it had been strange to consider the walls inhabited by more than just herself… as well as perhaps a little cumbersome, for her own company was what she liked. The Sendings were peaceable companions, and they would never have vocal disagreement as to the danger she was to put her nephew in and against, for instance.

But it had not been that way. The imaginings that had kept her company the last few months were gone, that future erased; instead, Terciel would now come alone, with what few of his own possessions he could carry… and as she had been unable to retrieve him for from Belisaere herself, the rest of his belongings had been spirited away by Clayr consort, those who had taken him to the Glacier to effectively wait out winter and await his new life. 

It had bothered the Abhorsen in her empty hours, that she had not gone to retrieve her nephew immediately. But in all the uncertainty there was one point in which she felt adamantly just and right: that whatever way he was to come to her, Terciel should not spend his first few weeks of living and learning at the House alone. And so he had remained, safe with the Clayr, until the first crisp notes of spring.

And though the Clayr had taken him under their protective wing far from danger and the bloodlines' enemies – the sheer volume of _accidents_ for her own had not escaped the Abhorsen's notice – there was an outlier, another, someone who had remained at the boy's side ever since his parents had departed for the Ninth Gate, who had in turn joined him at the Glacier. The merchant woman was familiar to the Abhorsen, even if she were in fact a closer friend to her brother and his wife… or had been. She has insisted she stay with him, as a final favour to his parents. 

Likely a promise, the Abhorsen thought. Maerie always kept her word.

It was several weeks after the Abhorsen had received the missive as to the deaths of Terciel's parents that the spring melts had at last begun, and with them, the outbreaks of constructs and Dead had gradually reduced to a trickle, direct contradiction to the over-churning waters that soaked riverbanks and flooded nearby wetland from the Glacier to the coast. The Old Kingdom would experience a lull, for a time, which meant it was time for her to return home, to rest, recuperation and research… and this year, to also care for and train her second.

The journey back to the House had been… distracting. The Abhorsen had processed her grief for the loss of her brother and his wife well enough, as she did with any other; her methods were tried and true, quiet thought coupled with locking away errant feelings so as to better focus upon her work, but it would be different for Terciel. His world was forever changed, those lands of carefree childhood left far behind. He was alone, as she was. 

Alone, together. But whilst her isolation was in part her own choosing, Terciel's was not, torn from him unwillingly. 

And whatever innocence that remained, that boyish youth? That would be taken from him too, with time. And she would be the one doing so.

The Abhorsen did not look forward to that. If it could be avoided, if there were but any other option…

But there was not. This was how it had to be. Terciel would be the next Abhorsen, and it was her duty to assure he would be prepared, and ready for what lay ahead. It was not only in her own work that her mark as Abhorsen would be left behind, but in him as well.

But no amount of logic would ever, ever dissuade the guilt of what she was to do.

Her return to the House had been far busier than normal. The Sendings so often whiled away their hours with not much to do save spring to action at their mistress' presence and cater to her ever whim – as it had been for the majority of her life now – that it was somewhat of a novelty to see them pay her no mind at all. Absolutely they were still polite, overly so, bowing low as they passed, but she was clearly secondary in their focus. There was a hustle, a hurrying, an _excitement_ that overwhelmed them, at the prospect of welcoming Terciel into the House – something they had never displayed before in his other visits, but for them to do so now was rather apt. His impending arrival would be his first steps along the path to Abhorsen, and that was why their demeanour had so changed. He was no longer a mere member of the line, but their next master.

As she had arrived they had been cleaning, and they were still at it. They did this every spring, she was sure, her presence a mere triviality to eons long established routine, but today there was a great deal of pride in it; everything was being dusted and polished, and a thin, wispy cloud of dust lingered in every room only long enough for each and every window to be thrown open by translucent hands, drapes brushing lightly against the pane in a gentle breeze. In fact, a great many Sendings that the Abhorsen did not recall having seen in years had metaphorically crawled from the woodwork for such an occasion, even if all they realistically achieved was getting underfoot to those that typically performed the task they were trying to assist with. The main source of that particular hubbub was on the floor of the guest bedrooms, where a wordless, serious argument was taking place as to which room would best suit the Abhorsen-in-Waiting; the Abhorsen had passed by the cluster of Sendings on her way to her own rooms to see them all as still as statues save for those she assumed were likely the champions of each particular suite, lightly tugging on freshly washed linens in Charter spun hands as if that selection too were a part of their respective case… amusing, to say the least. 

She hoped they would not dote on her nephew too much. She knew firsthand that they were difficult to dissuade once they began a task. It had been somewhat nice to not have Sendings ushering her to a bath the very moment she stepped across the threshold, and better still that she had been permitted to wash herself in peace.

Choosing what to wear after her bath, however, was a chore the Abhorsen reasoned she would have appreciated their help with. It was not that she _never_ saw her nephew, but typically it had been tied to business, and that was perhaps twice or thrice a year; winter had been yet a while away last she'd seen him, prior to his last birthday. He had been eleven then, and still occupied with childish playfulness, but always with an ever present interest in books and talking. Lots and lots of talking: he had always been a charmer. But in each of those visits the Abhorsen had arrived in typical Abhorsen regalia complete with gethre and bells, and none of her visits had been overly long enough for her to think to weigh herself down by packing anything else to wear. Enough time to be social for a meal, and an afternoon to inquire as to what her nephew had been learning, and a few lessons as to the Abhorsen art perhaps… not the bulk of it, not the Book of the Dead, no, but talks as to the Charter, to bloodlines, about the bells she carried and what they did. It had been as gentle as an introduction to what would be his life as she could manage.

He knew, of course. Terciel had asked her some years before. It was almost instinctually that he knew; that no dream or fancy he held for himself would be pursued as he grew older, that he would instead join his aunt and learn and become what she was. It had caused a frown on the boy's face, a frown that did not belong there, a frown that should never be seen upon a child, but Terciel had quickly accepted it and moulded it. He would go with his parents and live with his aunt and learn what she did and save the people of the Old Kingdom. A happy fairytale. A fairytale any child would love to have as their destiny.

The Abhorsen sighed at the memory as she pulled up her hair, freshly clean and still damp behind her ears. The reality would be far different. Perhaps her nephew had begun to realise that, too, even before the last few months had happened. Maybe she should not sugar-coat things and she should greet him as she always had, as his Abhorsen-clad aunt… 

But that was not how she wished to portray herself. He _was_ her nephew, even if that was forced to be secondary. Her brother's beloved son. Here in the Abhorsen's House, he would be safe. Not imprisoned. Here was a haven safe from the troubles and horror of their day to day existence, as she felt it to be; here she would – should – be more _aunt_ than Abhorsen.

And she could not fashion him to be her second in weeks. No, it would be a years long undertaking, as many as could be afforded, and he would be more man than boy at the end of it. In the years to follow he would have a greater need for family and trust than a cold, safely distanced mentor.

To be his aunt, truly, was the last thing she could do in honour of her own brother and his wife and all that their shared bloodline had taken from their wished for child. 

That decision made it easier for her to decide what to wear, settling on what she typically wore whilst at the House, even if there was still a touch of formality to it, what with the blue patterned dress bearing silver keys to signify her line… but then, much of her wardrobe bore the same. The Abhorsen had chosen a knee length dress, perfect to wear with breeches and she did, with boots to match. All that was left to do was wait until the Sendings came for her at first sight of the incoming Clayr and the to-be Ahorsen-in-Waiting – and her room, the Abhorsen's room, was a good a place as any for her to idle. It was a perfect time to adjust, to allay some of her own nerves that had begun to manifest.

Though he were her student and would eventually become her second, she had no knowledge of how to raise a child, let alone one now orphaned. It would be a time of learning for them both, it seemed.

And in all imaginings, never just the both of them alone: the two of them, for however long.

There was a strange sense of solace in that, and a quiet sadness that in some distant future when she was Abhorsen no more, and would take to the river one last time, that Terciel would be the very last of the Abhorsens.

… but there was much to do before that. They had a great deal yet to do.

The Abhorsen exhaled, pushing herself from the edge of the chaise as the most familiar of the House's Sendings opened the door – this was the Sending who made itself known to her whenever she had need of it, and assisted her in all matters with an almost instinctual partnership after so many years in her company. 

She sighed, softly. "The time has come," she voiced aloud. Regardless of which of the many Sendings it was, there was only one reason to retrieve her; her timing at having decided to move was only coincidence, and that she did not entirely believe in.

The Abhorsen descended the stairs to the foyer still preoccupied by her thoughts, passing Sendings in more of a hurry than her, finishing the last of their assigned tasks or crowding about the entrance hall in anticipation of welcome – the earlier bedroom dilemma seemed to have been resolved, she noted, as all other landings were clear and gleaming, having also been mopped and polished at some point since she had last seen them. She passed the gathered crowd by with only a subconsciously given smile, purposefully walking out through the kitchens to the redbrick path that led to the jetty and boat landing, where her nephew was waiting and the river had delivered him.

\- - - -

Today was an end, but also a beginning.

For much of the journey south from the Glacier to the Abhorsen's House, Terciel had been quiet, which was no small feat for a boy that was best known for being talkative. 

It was not that he was at a loss for words, but instead that words did not seem to have a place here on _Finder_. Between the boat gliding serenely downriver, the Clayr's silence as they had preoccupied themselves with manning the vessel, and Maerie occupying herself with writing, all that had been required of him was to give two word answers and to sit still and behave, and so he had.

Terciel had always liked visiting the House. He liked how silly the Sendings could be and how _old_ some of them were, with years beyond imagining: some had probably been there since the very first bricks of the House had been laid, made by the very first Abhorsen. He liked the library and its mountain of books, coveting the few he had been permitted to read… he liked seeing his aunt, too. It was not so easy to make and keep friends with overprotective parents, and the limited few that had met their approval had come equipped with the knowledge that one day he would be walking the Old Kingdom as a necromancer (but the good kind), and his aunt was the only person who understood that, being Abhorsen already. Their time and visits together had been intermittent, but Terciel always peppered her with constant questions that had been on his mind from whenever he had seen her last for as long as he could remember.

But today was not a visit, and today he would stay. The Abhorsen's House was now his home, and technically had been his home for weeks already. The Glacier… before, he would have been thrilled to visit it, surrounded by people with a similar service to the Old Kingdom as he would one day have, but _now_…

It was frustrating. Now was so… he missed what he had lost, and didn't know _what_ to do about it. Everyone was busy deciding things for him, for a future that would have come eventually and was happening right now whether he wanted it to or not, and whatever he said about, well, _anything_ wouldn't matter. 

And so much like the present trip down the Ratterlin, Terciel had left his feelings unvoiced. Whatever he said, whatever he wanted, would not affect the outcome of himself, and… right now, it wasn't as though he wanted anything _else_, but it was all assumption. No one had asked. Still, he knew that it would be easier to oblige.

Maybe he'd figure out his feelings when the dust had figuratively settled, and everything wasn't happening so quickly. There were arguably things to look forward to ahead… a life that he was, had been, genuinely excited to finally become a part of, exiting that interim stage where his parents had muddled through with pretending and expertly dodging his occasional query as to when he would go to live with his aunt and become an Abhorsen-in-Waiting.

His parents. When he thought of them there was… an ache, one he couldn't describe. Even if they were not coming with him, they did not feel gone; like he could still write a letter and would receive a reply, or that they might come to visit him in summer. That they could laugh and hold him and fuss and worry but never feel more proud. 

And each time it tore through him when he remembered they couldn't. Sometimes he would even forget almost entirely, waking up in the Abhorsen's suite of the Glacier and in his drowsiness expecting to find them at the breakfast table, his mother buttering bread and his father smoking bacon. 

But he hadn't. Only a lonely array of food just for him, Maerie having already taken her share.

He didn't know if he liked the merchant woman being around or not. Terciel knew Maerie well enough, her family one of those vetted parties he could socialise with, and a far more frequent visitor than his aunt: she had been at expert at drawing his parent's out of themselves, that any far gone future to worry about was nowhere in reach, but now she was more sombre than he had ever known her to be. Now, when she looked at him, it was with… well, not quite the expression his parent's had sometimes given him, but close. Apprehension. Worry. Guilt. Words he had learned early, but he had always been certain he was applying correctly. No matter how they tried to hide it, it was always there, lying in wait beneath the surface.

And Maerie had wrote a lot, to her children. They were both a little older than he was, and he had met them, but not in the last few years – perhaps because they had not wanted to come. Or it was his own doing. Or they merely had other friends and places in which to go, busier places and yet undecided futures.

And him to a big old empty House as he was used to, though far grander, with only an aunt and some Sendings for company. And a cat, not that the cat was good company. 

Terciel wanted him to be. Would Mogget be more receptive to his continually offered friendship if he was to see him every day? He felt he already had the answer, but that would not dissuade him. He had been warned about the cat, multiple times, and Terciel could tell for himself that Mogget was certainly not what he appeared to be – that he was something old and wicked and dangerous, bound. 

But the cat served his aunt, as he had a great many other Abhorsens. Mogget was a font of information not to be disregarded nor forgotten about, and he would like to be on terms where Mogget would tell him things, but there was more to it than that. It would do to show respect, yes, but also friendship for friendship's sake; the cat would be at his side for many years to come, and it felt only right to show him kindness.

His aunt had been continually bemused by such attempts between boy and cat, but had not interjected, perhaps as Mogget's reaction would be quite telling. At first the cat had thought it a joke or a silly game played by a silly barely-aware child, given that the first time Terciel had tried he had been maybe four or five and he had still liked to hold toy animals when he walked everywhere, and Mogget had reminded him of those, but intelligent, and he could _speak_; the danger was circumstantial and the collar was off limits and even if Terciel hadn't been well behaved, it felt wrong to try to touch it, not that he wanted to, when there was a fluffy white cat that he could pet and play with. But as he got older and Terciel's offer of friendship had become more insightful and decided upon, Mogget had realised his seriousness, his sincerity, and had only grown all the more despising of it as a result.

Well. Perhaps that was the first thing he could work on then, outside of his aunt's instruction: to make Mogget his friend. Or, as was more likely, to have Mogget tolerate him, even if only a little bit. 

It was a small thing, a decision that probably wouldn't matter and wouldn't last or change, but maybe that was why. He had decided to do it anyway without anyone's say so. As long as he did not put himself in danger, he would keep trying. And for now, Terciel could live with that.

Maybe the lack of choice in everything was getting under his skin far more than he had first reckoned it to be. 

Carefully, Terciel put that feeling aside, choosing to ponder his aunt instead. There was not too far to go to the House now, he felt, by which it had been a very long time already over having something physical to prove it. How should he greet her? With a smile, or a bow? What name should he give her? Not 'auntie' as he had done years past, he was a little too old for that now, but… should it be with respect to his mentor with her title – as Abhorsen – or would she want him to refer to her as aunt in private company? 

She had never offered him her name for his address, although Terciel did know it. Really, he knew very little about her as a person, about her likes and dislikes – he should learn those alongside everything else he was too learn, to show his gratitude somehow for her teaching him and taking him in as her second – but he was certain that would all come with time. He would have a lot of it outside of training… Terciel was under no illusion that, save for perhaps these first few months, she would spend most of her time without him. The Old Kingdom would call for her aid, and she would answer, and… for however long this part of his life would be… he would not be going with her, nor attending to his own.

He knew that rote well enough. Though he was now learning and had begun, this was still the part of his life where he had to be 'kept safe' from what 'might do him harm'. He would be the last Abhorsen to take the title, for there were no others.

Although one day there could be, if he had a family of his own… but that would be a long time off, and, being twelve, was hardly an appealing thought, so he returned to the immediate present and his aunt, wondering whether she would be greeting him and his consort dripping river off the jetty, or if they would have to be made more presentable first.

(He was reasonably confident that she would not care as to his presentation, given the amount of times she had arrived at his parent's house caked in dirt and mud and underneath, likely her own dried blood.)

Sat at the bow of _Finder_, spray lightly hitting his face and occasionally his eyes, it was then no surprise that he was the first of the vessel to see the looming walls that surrounded the island where the Abhorsen's House resided. It had not been a conscious decision of anticipation, and more that he could mull over his present path undisturbed without the coupled look that it seemed all adults around him were giving him these days, but all that was forgotten as he clambered to his feet, swaying slightly. He could just about make out the House's highest level, the observatory, a small speck of creamy white and windows, nestled high above the world around it; its contents a mystery to any onlooker if they did not already know them from having seen them for themselves. Terciel waved over to Maerie – not so distracted by letter writing to spot him vying for her attention – and she nodded, a sigh of relief as she informed the Clayr, too preoccupied with arguing as to the trim of the sail as the river widened, a sign in itself that they would be upon the island and the small channel to the jetty which they did not want to miss very soon, else they have to deal with the waterfall instead.

It was harder to enter the channel than Terciel remembered from the previous times had had been to the House by boat, but then, that was easily explained away by it being spring, and he had never travelled the Ratterlin immediately after winter melt and natural flooding. The river had been mostly empty today, now he considered it, with only High Bridge boasting fishing vessels and a few intrepid testers of the waters: their wares had been stacked high, the sort that would be needed immediately after winter's end, vying to make the most profit at market before everyone else caught on to the trend that spring was true, and the Old Kingdom would came alive again. The Ratterlin certainly felt alive beneath _Finder_, the water's depth and furiosity churning at their feet as they bumped between banks, and he and his travelling companions were more than a little soaked as they cleared it, little by little… and the jetty gradually came into view, where a solo figure was stood, flanked by a great many Sendings, their black shapes shimmering slightly with their heads bowed in respect.

The Abhorsen. 

She seemed unchanged since last he saw her. That same expression, the same stillness, the same strands of gray hair tucked behind her ears. 

Her attire was different. Everyday wear, he supposed: far more casual than he had ever seen her. More… aunt, than Abhorsen. 

Aunt…

It stirred a distant feeling that Terciel couldn't place, as though an exhale for breath he hadn't even realised he had been holding, a worry that hadn't truly formed with everything else he had to think about and had yet failed to reach any lasting conclusions to. With so much to change and so much that already had, he still had her… he still had a family. 

It was… soothing.

_Finder_ bumped one last time against the jetty, the two Clayr quick to tie rope that would keep her still and at ease, but they proceeded no further than that. Perhaps they meant for him to go first, as two quirked eyebrows rose when Maerie instead took the front, beckoning for Terciel to follow.

He did. There were birds somewhere, beyond the wall, their songs barely audible over the Charter spelled quiet of the river. This close, the surrounding walls felt impossibly tall, the world now white washed stone patched with green ivy and red berries, a gentle wind tousling his hair, all so very calm and welcoming… Terciel was familiar enough with the House to expect it, but even so, it didn't quite stop the distant ringing in his ears from the day spend on the Ratterlin.

His aunt had not moved as the procession had made its way to her, and Terciel only stopped as Maerie did, presumably to greet her. Curiously she did not bow, but from his angle, any expression was lost; neither could he quite tell if he heard her name over title as the merchant woman crossed the remaining distance, both women's voices low and hushed.

Terciel had been privy to enough hushed conversations to know they did not want to be interrupted – even if it were also about him, given that they kept glancing in his direction. Instead he pretended blissful ignorance, looking about as they exchanged pleasantries, for Mogget. There was no sign of him, not as a cat or the strange little albino dwarf shape he sometimes wore; when he was little that had for a time been preferred, for then he had still been taller (and had stopped eager friendly children trying to unsuccessfully pet him); more recently Mogget had not bothered for his alternative guise, growth spurts taking away that advantage. 

Either way, the cat was not present. The Sendings, however, were many. For now they did nothing, and they seemed particularly interested in him in a way they had never been before, looking – not that they had eyes – at him with almost curious intent. They had always been interested, that was true, had always been eager to have him _do_ things even if he didn't want them to, but _that_, that was definitely from duty to the keeping of the House and their mistress, and not because he was next.

It was… scrutiny, almost, that lingered behind those great many invisible eyes. It was not that they looked upon him as Abhorsen, or Abhorsen-in-Waiting; but only knowledge of the Abhorsen's art was what stood in the way of that now, not time. He was here to become that, not to leave and return again.

It made him feel… older, as if a snatch of remaining youth had been stolen from him that the past few weeks had not quite succeeded in taking. As if it was all suddenly very real, whereas his time until now was more a dream.

He heard his name said, the conversation having taken a louder, inclusive turn – it would be him and his aunt that would speak next, and as the two woman turned toward him, Terciel found himself quite and truly speechless, his weeks-long wondering having done nothing for him after all.

"Thank you for bringing him to the House – and being his ward, when I could not," his aunt said, to the gathering of women, not that he remembered when the Clayr had taken position either side of him, and all three smiled or nodded as what each felt was appropriate – a smile for Maerie for it was the least she could do, and a nod from the Clayr, as it was in part duty, and part the least they could do for a fellow bloodline. "I am grateful. Winter has been long, and difficult; but now, spring, and new beginnings."

She said it with the ghost of hope: hinted, but not quite believed, for it was not a happy means as to which those beginnings had arrived. Now, she turned her full attention to Terciel, and wherever his attentions had been wandering were now solely hers. Though she looked as any other women might, her presence was almost overwhelming. That she could be so normal and yet so confident and mighty, secure in herself and her abilities… those would be huge boots to one day fill, to command such respect.

"Terciel," she said, softening, in absence of being able to say anything else, least of all not whilst in company, or until he indicated he wished to talk about it. He shuffled slightly under her gaze; her words were as much a pittance as any other. "Welcome to the Abhorsen's House, formally. As Abhorsen I must say that today is the day in which your training will begin as Abhorsen-in-Waiting, a title you will take when you are ready." How she did not qualify, Terciel noted. Probably her discretion. "But that is formality. You are my nephew, and I—"

The Abhorsen hesitated, lack of dealing with children or showing affection evident. She felt so disadvantaged for only ever being an occasional presence in his life; she did not know how best to be comforting, to be family over mentor. An embrace felt the right thing, not that she had ever greeted him with one, not that she ever been able nor presentable – not caked in dirt and mud – to do so. Perhaps it would be awkward. Perhaps it was not the right thing to offer, unwanted.

Eventually, the Abhorsen settled with holding out both her hands toward him, both weathered and scarred over, the only hint in her present visage that she was not a well groomed noble woman that did not walk and work in hardship.

An offering, or an impasse: a _for now_, until they could figure it out together.

Terciel, to his credit, did not leave her waiting long. He reached back, tentative though surprised that she had not swooped in regardless of his wants, as Maerie's initial bear hug weeks ago had been (not unwanted but sudden), as the Clayr had greeted him with a kiss on both cheeks (definitely unwanted, near embarrassing particularly as they were many and numerous). This was in equal parts respect and affection, and he was glad she offered it.

Everything else, the past few weeks, had all been a temporary. Abhorsen was his anchor to this world, his only anchor now; and Abhorsen was not just a bloodline, but a person.

What really was surprising was how much of a relief that was.

\- - - -

Dinner with Sendings at the helm had always been a delight in Terciel's visits, and they had not disappointed. Had he known them well, they had in fact gone all out, no expense or measure spared, having not had this number of people at the table in quite some time, and none of those nights had been the Abhorsen-in-Waiting's first in situ. There was merriness enough, even with the circumstances; Maerie was a great provider of it, and the Clayr gradually coming out of their shells and kept reasonable pace with her, but his aunt was most often quiet, only guiding conversation when it was instated, never offering her own. He figured it was not that she did not know how to, but more than she was preoccupied with after, with thinking; he could be very much the same in that regard, even if he was also very much a talker, and it was far more noticeable when he said nothing.

Or it had been in his parent's company, at least. Not tonight. No one knew him well enough to understand his silence, likely dismissing it as him being overwhelmed, that he needed time for the adjustment… which was fair, but also not entirely true. His aunt, though… perhaps she understood., and was waiting for the formality to pass so that she could talk to him alone.

As night fell, his escorts chose to remain, intending to make sail at dawn's first light, and had retired early to the guest rooms; the Sendings were all too happy to oblige with that decision, providing garments for bedwear and impeccably presented, already made beds, as if they had anticipated such a choice. Where once there had been many, he and his aunt were the last to remain at the dinner table.

She was at the head – the Abhorsen's chair, far fancier than the rest, a taller back and darker wood tones – and he, to her right, the tips of his toes just about brushing against the floor. His aunt had not spoken in some time, not even as the noise of the rest of the House died away, moving someplace upstairs, and the table was cleared in equal silence. Her elbows were propped against the wooden surface, chin pressed against her hands as she deliberated on where to begin, her regard fully upon him at last, with no other distractions.

There was a lot Terciel wanted to say, or ask, but he was wise enough to know this was not the place for it. Not that she would deny him; he only need wait for her decision. His aunt was very deliberate, and this was a learning process for her as much as it was for him.

It still felt like forever until she finally reanimated, reaching whatever conclusion she had been toying with. In reality it was something as simple as whether she should see him off to bed now and begin anew in the morning, or to take advantage of the time they had now, of the still long night. 

"I will see you in the study in a quarter hour," she said, having decided on the night. And then, as an afterthought, "if you would like."

"I would," said Terciel immediately. The silence had not made him uneasy, but it had made him all the more eager for whatever came after, and her offer was a triumph; and yet as the words tumbled out the excitement felt a little much, a little too like a child, and he sat a little straighter, correcting himself as more composed. "I mean – yes, Abhorsen. I would like that."

She smiled, a brief splitting of recently wrinkled lines at the corners of her mouth. "Aunt is fine," she clarified. "I may be your mentor, but I will always be your aunt. Although, I am glad to hear it. I suppose, for now—" she lifted her gaze across the table to someplace past him, out into the hall, and as if on cue, a Sending stepped into view, as they always did when she had need of it. "—your rooms. The Sending will take you. What you brought with you – and much besides – awaits you there. I ask that you not get too preoccupied and forget our prior engagement. And the attire," she mused to the keenly approaching Sending, who nodded. "See if it fits."

Terciel had no idea as to what 'the attire' was, but in his mind that seemed secondary. The conceptual things she had left in his room… perhaps she had left him books, or a sword, or – unlikely, but possibly – bells. Well. Probably not the bells, and nor the books, if she wanted him to meet her in the study. The Sending shooed him from the dining table as he deliberated, not dragging him along but skirting just behind him, so that if he ever stopped or dallied it could hurry him in the right direction. 

It was a strange decision for it to have made, Terciel felt, as he had no idea where he was to go once he passed the stairs, but that easily rectified by a myriad of other Sendings that bumbled around him as he reached the next landing, effectively carrying him along until he reached what he had always assumed to be the guest wing, but was in actuality a hall of bedrooms that serviced the Abhorsens that lived here that were not the head of the House as well as their guests, which made sense in retrospect. He had snuck a glimpse of his aunt's rooms when he was younger; they were colossal, mammoth, and grandiose. The other bedrooms had that same grandeur although their size was lesser, but still at least thrice the size of his room back home.

Well. His childhood room. These were to be his rooms now, forevermore, until—

Terciel didn't get much time to take his room in, though – had he stayed in this particular room before, and was it only now decorated more fancifully? – as the moment he crossed the threshold the cluster of Sendings separated and collectively grabbed him by both arms, dragging him across the stone floor in the direction of the copper bath.

Oh. He knew what was to come next: had received it enough times. He opened his mouth to protest, for this was _hardly_ dignified, and hardly _necessary_, and if he was to be Ahorsen-in-Waiting surely they would respect that he _didn't_ want them to do this, but the chance was quite effectively dashed as a bucket of sulphurous water was upended over his head. He couldn't even recall the Sendings removing his garments but they had, a harmonious mechanism working in tandem as the last of his underclothes were gone a mere moment before the water landed; and, his mouth open and looking upward to object – the Sendings were the height of full grown adults, after all – he had ended up with much of that same sulphurous water in his mouth.

It tasted _vile_. 

Terciel spluttered, a near whooping fit as he tried to make a noise of disgust whilst also simultaneously attempting to cough the water back out again. Used to their charges having such reactions, the nearest Sending to him, who had until then been passing the next bucket along the line, heartily clapped him on the back in assistance a couple of times, granting Terciel a momentary reprieve from the being-washed experience – and, satisfied he was no longer choking, the Sendings routinely continued, bucket by bucket, soap by suds, and Terciel kept his mouth firmly shut. He could complain later when sulphuric afterburn was not the lingering taste on his tongue.

They had the decency to allow him a small amount of modesty with the towel that they had used to scrub him dry, although he would not be surprised if that was due to the fact they were not certain if 'the attire' his aunt mentioned would fit him. Right now they were measuring by sight and hand, holding the tunic up against his back – it was a little long, and barely noticeable, but the Sendings took great pride in their work. Their silent deliberation, Terciel assumed, was to whether they should shorten the silver key flecked blue tunic… or whether that was wasted effort, as they would likely have to let it out again within a few weeks.

They must have settled with unnecessary – or that they did not have the opportunity to do so now, as The Abhorsen's summons was fast approaching, and they would do so later whilst he slept – as the towel was torn from him one moment, and the next, underclothes had been donned, breeches had been pulled up and the tunic tugged over his head, each Sending perfectly adept at making it feel seamless. It was an incredibly fast way to get dressed, Terciel had to admit.

The… one in charge, the Chief Sending, Terciel decided – the one that had appeared for his aunt and then brought him here, and had also seemingly had the final not-say-so on the tunic's adjustments – took him by the elbow, steering him to the mercy of the almost wall length mirror. It backed away just enough so that the only reflection Terciel could see was of himself.

It was striking how much he looked the part. He was not changed from that morning, not really, save for being a little cleaner with his hair freshly combed – and it would likely be mussed again all too soon – but the person that looked back at him was only fractionally familiar, as though they were not entirely pretending by wearing these clothes, even if they had not grown into them yet. Figuratively as well as in actuality, as it were.

"I suppose this is really happening," he said quietly, fingers touching the reflective pane as if to affirm that this was no dream, that he was not back home in Belisaere or still at the Clayr's Glacier. His heart thudded, anticipatory and sad at the same time. As much as his parents had not wished for this day… they should have been beside him for it.

He felt his eyes flutter with a threat of tears that was not unfamiliar, given that it had happened enough to him as of late. Perhaps those around him thought him entirely together and fine, as they had never seen it… but that was far from the truth. Terciel had been alone the first time: and each time after fought, subdued it, no want or desire for more pity. If he had allowed it, the tears would have long since taken him. 

But he couldn't. He had to hold himself together. He had to be strong. He had to become Abhorsen-in-Waiting. 

_Wanted_ to, a little longed for, and now only amplified as something to focus all of his attentions so that he would not cry.

Terciel inhaled, a deep, long held breath, his ribs contracting at the effort: and exhaled slowly, retrieving his hand from the mirror as he did so. He looked no worse for wear, his face perfectly still and no tangible emotion upon it, with his mask of togetherness that he had held seamlessly in place. It might have begun in desperation, as an interim measure, but… he felt assured that he would be using that mask a great deal, now that he knew it.

He looked away from his mirror image to instead look at the Sendings, peaceably waiting for instruction with an enviable stoicism he never would be able to achieve.

"Thank you," Terciel said, to fill the silence that the Sendings never would. He had spare minutes still, but… perhaps it would be best to settle alone, later, without the Sendings as still as statues. "To the study, then."

Terciel knew the way; a brief, brisk walk no more than a hundred paces, but the Chief Sending accompanied him, drifting serenely along at his side, the Charter marks upon its skin blooming in concert to the ones that brightly came to life above and around them as they passed, fading away moments after with readiness for the next time that they would be disturbed. The House was very quiet at night, and beyond that small ring of light, it was dark. Empty. Terciel had never noticed, given that he had never really wandered the House alone before… not without human company, or permission. There were a great many rooms he had never looked in for more than a few seconds, unsuccessfully capturing the interest of a busy, roaming child; they would have eventually, but his parents much preferred him elsewhere during summer days. They had liked him to be in the garden, he recalled, with its great many distractions – sunny weather and rabbits to watch and apples to pick and Moggets to attempt to stroke, always a failure – even if he much preferred the mysteries of the House.

Mysteries soon to be resolved… or a few of them, at least.

The Chief Sending knocked on the double wide door that led to the study: either it decided not to wait or had heard a response Terciel could not, for almost immediately the Sending opened the nearest handle with a momentarily pronounced hand, indicating with a flick of its cowled head for Terciel to enter ahead of them.

He could smell old paper and dust and books, a familiar smell from hours spent whiled away with what he had been permitted to read. Shelves upon shelves crammed into what was not a small room and there was so much to _learn_, now no longer quite out of reach… and his aunt, already awaiting him in the middle of it all. Mostly likely she had come here directly from the dining room; she wore nothing new, aiming to preoccupy herself with her own thoughts and attempts at busyness until his arrival. The table alongside the Abhorsen was stacked high with a great many books, all covered in thin sheets of dust along exposed edges, their pages marked with miss-matching objects and torn parchment, for her to recall upon a passage later; and near them, a much more recently placed pot of steeping tea in blue china with a pair of matching cups. Yet it had not been those things the Abhorsen had attempted to busy herself with, but the unbound scrolls scattered across the tabletop instead, each one written in a different hand – letters that had waited for her until winter's end that she planned to deal with that evening, before retiring to bed.

She was sat in one of two upholstered arm chairs, surprisingly not blue, unlike the Abhorsens' more favoured motif. As he entered, his aunt had raised her head slightly, indicating he take the one adjacent on the other side of the table, and Terciel did, despite his own attentions eagerly roaming about the room, hungry for knowledge, and that hunger only held at bay with the promise that he one day would. Terciel more-so tripped into his chair rather than sitting in it, but even as he perched on the plush velvet he still found himself steadily sinking backward into the cushions. There was such a thing as _too_ comfortable, and this chair was clearly not made for a boy still growing. He wriggled, a vain attempt to pull himself free and also forward for he wished to be attentive, to not give in to the growing tiredness after the day's journey… but the ground he regained was negligible, and his feet still did not quite touch the floor.

The Abhorsen watched him, the messages awaiting reply now quite forgotten, but even as he settled it was clear her interest was not on his armchair struggles. It was not a lack of things to say, either, as those things were many; instead it was a look as though she were trying to… figure him out, now they were alone. Where to start, perhaps. An appraisal of character; she had probably noted his tunic did not quite fit in those few seconds before he had sat down. 

It was a sizing up that was not dissimilar to how someone chose essential goods at market, but it was also not that at all. This choice was not so insignificant as to only have an effect for the next few days; this was about a future. Hers, his… last of their bloodline, what that would do to the Old Kingdom, and what that meant. What it would mean, and who would be left to fight for it when she could no longer. 

It was hard to endure, particularly as she was also not shy about it, now they were alone. It was a strong scrutiny in which the Abhorsen regarded him, now more mentor than aunt. Anyone would want to shy away from that gaze, for far less important things. He was quite certain it would have the same effect should he incur a reason for her to look at him in such a manner for non-Abhorsen related matters. His parents had disciplined him enough, but they were never strict about it, never always having to weigh every action and misdemeanour against the fact that he would be the next in the line of Abhorsen's.

Despite his recently forced bath, Terciel could feel beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck – and he was not even looking her directly in the eye. He was not even doing anything wrong. Imagine if he was, or had! She was most certainly a person not to be trifled with.

To his relief – and the tiniest, smallest of sighs escaped him, grateful that he had survived – the Abhorsen at last blinked, and looked away. Whatever she had seen in him, she didn't elaborate, instead glancing toward the Sendings that had filed in against the wall by the door unnoticed, waving her hand in dismissal. "That will do for now, thank you," she said, and the loyal gathering bowed deeply, returning back the way they had arrived in single file.

She did not move again until they were really, truly alone, reaching for the teapot and pouring two cups of steaming liquid, equally measured. 

"I'm sure you have a great many questions," she said. "But allow me one of my own, first. Although it is not much of one, but… an offering, more or less," she mused, her brow furrowing as she lowered the teapot back to its place, spout still lightly steaming. "I will not ask. I will not make you speak of them. But know, Terciel, if you should wish to speak of your parents, now or ever, I will always listen."

It was an offer she had not been comfortable to make until now, not only for his sake, but her own. Laying emotions bare was not something she permitted herself where others could see them, and it was a lesson her nephew had learned a little of on his own: she could see it now, as Terciel shook his head, movements too precise to be fluid and entirely believed. He had not had the practice she had on the matter, after all.

And yet, though he had planned to say that he would, a platitude, those were not the words that escaped him. "I miss them," Terciel said, surprising himself at the sincerity and truth, the honesty he had until now not allowed himself. "And I don't—"

He stopped. He couldn't—he couldn't say—

_I don't know what I should do._

Not quite true—

Not quite a lie.

He knew what was _expected_ of him. Did he continue to pretend that he was fine, for he could not fall apart? Even if it still hurt? Even if it still gnawed away at him? He couldn't— they _shouldn't_ be—

It felt, alone as she was, last as the bloodline they both were, that his aunt would have the answers.

_But what if she didn't?_

Terciel said nothing more, opening and closing his mouth several times as the words fell away, unspoken.

The Abhorsen waited, long enough to be sure he would not speak again, and leant back in her own armchair, sighing. It was a sigh, an exhale, that he recognised. "Your father – my brother – although he was more than a decade my senior, and our respective paths had long taken us far from one another… he always did his utmost to assist, with mine. Was counsel to something he would never be. His belief and trust in others was always something to aspire to. I miss him, too. As I do your mother."

Terciel looked down at his knees, hidden by his ill fitting tunic. He was so used to everyone expressing condolences, plural, that he hadn't thought of his parents much separately or apart, had tried not to remember those last few weeks without his father and his mother's final days. She had taken his loss with clarity at first – but it was not to be. A strangeness crept in, a paranoia intermixing with her despair, but only sometimes. Then more. And more, until there was little left of her. It had been difficult to watch, not knowing how to talk her from it, to watch her health wane, and then—

His knuckles whitened, stark against clenched fingers. 

Maybe he should have done more.

"I miss them," he said again with far more feeling, to his feet. It was somehow an entirely different sentiment, although they were the same words he had spoken last. He thought of how his mother had been, the last time he'd seen his father, and how much they clearly loved one another – a small light to hold onto. It was a moment he could allow himself, even if it was painful, too. "But I… I am here now."

"Yes," his aunt agreed, soothingly. Despite her inexperience with dealing with children, she knew well enough when someone would say nothing more on a matter. He wished to move on, and there was no reason for her to pry any further. For Terciel to resolve his feelings and speak with her – or not – was not a time sensitive matter, and always his decision. "Yes. No one will disturb us here; I am at your disposal. You are free to ask questions at your leisure."

His eyes enthusiastically snapped back upward to her at the offer. Questions! There was a great many that rushed to his mind, all questions that had either had no answer before, or had always been put aside, to be answered later. 

And now he had to choose.

"That's a lot of options," Terciel mumbled to himself.

"It is," his aunt agreed, the crinkling smile returning at her amusement – he had been louder than he had realised, if she had heard it. She took a sip of tea as he hurriedly looked away. "Perhaps start with what you have questioned most. The most pressing one."

Terciel considered. It was not that he wasn't interested in the answers, but that he was too overeager: '_tell me everything_' was rather non-specific and would require more time of their evening than existed, and neither would he fully understand her even if that were possible. There was no rush to learn, he reminded himself: it was important that he learn everything fully.

There was one question though. One that would undoubtedly be refused… but if he didn't ask, never asked and waited patiently, it would only bother him. 

He could spin it as a joke if he tried, and a mischievous look played about his face, the most boyish his aunt had seem him all day. She half expected his request even before he made it. "About the bells…"

"You will not be getting your own set for quite some time," the Abhorsen said with finality, efficiently shutting him down, and Terciel felt the smallest of disappointments. Not that he expected her to give them to him _now_, but… even so. His aunt was not finished, however, gently swirling her teacup's contents absently. "Panpipes far sooner though, perhaps. One of your studies will be music."

Now that he hadn't expected. Certainly his parents had tried to stoke some musical interest in him, and it was there, yes; but they had also had him take regular lessons in piano, and those hours felt arduous and dull, a repetitive task when he would much rather be doing practical things, such as Charter magic tutelage. "Music?" he said with a hint of further disappointment, wrinkling his nose – but also genuine curiosity as to why it was important for him to learn.

His aunt nodded. "It will not be instrument study, necessarily. But all Abhorsens must be musical to some calibre. There is the Paperwing and weather working, for one. And it is an essential tool in your arsenal against the Dead, even if it will rarely ever be used. In Death, and in life against the Dead, you must make use of any means you have to survive. The bells have their own sound and canter, which, until you use them yourself, can be replicated with the panpipes… their personalities of voice are part of what they are. And should you ever be without your bells, you must be able to replicate their sound should you ever have need of them, as a last resort."

It was a more serious consideration and reply than Terciel had entertained. All trace of mischief was gone as he listened, nodding seriously. It was far more important than he had thought it to be, and he had long decided he would take all his aunt's lessons to heart, whatever they were, and equally, whenever she offered them. "I understand," he said. "What else will I learn?"

"More than can be told in one evening," his aunt said swiftly, but still she mused. "Key areas of study, for now, would be… the Charter, music, swordmanship, history and speaking, and…"

She paused, pointedly, lowering her teacup back to the table, contents not quite empty. Debating something. After a few moments she sighed, heavily; there would be no avoiding it. "… and the Book of the Dead, I suppose. With supervised study from myself, for the time being."

Terciel knew there would be no arguing as to her supervision, even if he were to insist that he could manage whatever its contents were. She had mentioned the Book before in passing, whenever he had last peppered her with unanswerable questions, and of all of them, it was the one about if there was anything written about the Abhorsen's art, about necromancy, for him to learn from, that she had answered. Still, he had never seen the Book itself; and though this was only the second time she had spoken of it, he could tell it was nothing like anything else on these shelves.

"Then… chapter by chapter?"

"Ideally," his aunt agreed. "But likely not so practical. The Book's contents change often… even I have likely not read everything it has to offer. No Abhorsen has; there will be things it will teach you at its choosing, and things it never will. Your first reading might not be as you wish it."

He wondered what she meant by that, that he would not wish it. The Book sounded positively divine for a keen reader such as himself. If only more books could be selective and changing – when he read them cover to cover, they never again elicited the same excitement as they had the first time, no matter how much time passed. "I like to learn things," Terciel said quietly. "All sorts of things…"

He had been warned about knowledge for knowledge's sake, and he would have countered that for himself, that if he did not learn as much as he could, he would not be true to himself, would not be the most useful and best Abhorsen-in-Waiting he could be – and would have said all those things perhaps, had he not spotted Mogget snoozing away on the rug underfoot, just out of reach.

For how long the cat had been there Terciel didn't know – he wasn't a moment ago, or the one before that, and neither when he himself had entered the study, but it didn't matter. His mouth snapped shut and all his neatly lined-up questions evaporated, his attention most effectively diverted. Even his eyes widened, quietly elated – he hadn't seen the Abhorsen's servant since his arrival.

The Abhorsen herself wondered what had interrupted him, until she recognised Terciel's rooted gaze – the look he gave the cat shaped creature had not changed since he was a toddler – and she returned to her tea, equally bracing herself for the inevitable, and washing her hands of it. Terciel's quest of friendship was somewhat futile, and one she did not agree with, but she was not about to break that childish dream nor interrupt, for the boy at least was wise enough not to remove the cat's collar in whatever he would do next.

Mogget, for his part, was still – _very_ still, as if realising upon a mistake. He had come here to lounge in warmth and splendour, having avoided the boy the entire day, but it was not until he had made his presence known that he realised he had forgotten to check if the Abhorsen-in-Waiting (they might refuse to call him that, but it was all technicality; the Sendings knew, the House knew, he knew) was here or not, assuming that, as a child, the Abhorsen would want him asleep for lessons upon the morrow… apparently not. He still did have the option to leave, but the cat hadn't taken it – his stillness was not only in recognition of his mistake, but an equal bracing for what was to come. A testing of the waters, so to speak, to see if Terciel's behaviour toward him had changed, unlikely as it was. He might as well get it out of the way, what with the Abhorsen-in-Waiting living here.

Terciel's narrowed gaze told the cat all he needed to know, particularly as he tried to reach out with one hand to see if he could reach him from the chair – Mogget was just out of reach, tantalising close, but not enough. Terciel slunk back into his chair with a pout, defeated on that count, and then hurriedly changed direction, holding out an upturned palm in his direction instead, as if he thought him a common house pet that would be swayed so easily by being offered his scent.

It was baffling and bemusing. It was not as though he cared for the whims of a child – still a child, for that matter, and he was not against tempting children – but he was aware that Terciel knew better than to trust him. All of the bloodline, particularly future Abhorens, knew something as to what he was, even if they did not yet know the full extent of what he would become should they remove the collar; and Terciel never had acquiesced to that request. He was a dangerous thing and the boy respected it, and yet, he continued to be kind.

Perplexing for one, unwanted for the other. Mogget's eternal servitude was not of his choosing, and an Abhorsen was no use to furthering his own agenda if his collar's removal was not to be in the cards. That time had long passed, after that one occasion with… hmm. It had been so long now that their names utterly escaped him. 

Terciel was not dissuaded even with Mogget's disinterest, clicking his tongue to try to attract his attention. "Hey, Mogget…"

He had no end for that sentence, but it was clear what the boy wanted of him. _Why not come over for a scratch behind the ears, and be my friend in the process?_

If he was waiting for that, Mogget thought, he would be waiting a very long time. 

The cat tutted – and then meowed, tail darting about lazily as he rolled his feline limbs and readjusted himself, turning away from Terciel entirely. His denial would not put the boy off – undoubtedly he would try again at a time when he could actually reach out to him, and only gain a swipe of a claw for the attempt – but the Abhorsen was present and the boy ought to be listening to her, and Mogget knew he could do nothing.

Somehow, that was a better gloat, a better victory than simply vanishing again in the darkness of the House.

His aunt watched as Terciel continued holding out his hand at different angles in a vain attempt to capture Mogget's interest, could see the desire on his face to be free of armchair confines and pursue the cat's denied friendship, and beneath it all, no ulterior motive. Mogget was a creature that could be trusted to be made instructions of, but he was always thinking of plots and machinations, and would think the same of others. Terciel meanwhile, was innocent but not naïve; and his only ulterior motive was in that he wished to be kind.

Kindness in the face of knowledge. A defining trait.

It was somewhat despairing to know that she and their work, the life he had inherited, would forcibly rip much of that from him.

The Abhorsen closed her eyes for a moment. Surely he would have many more questions if she refocused his attention, but they could wait for tomorrow. No, there was only one other piece of wisdom she wished to impart upon him now as Abhorsen and guardian both, before she sent him to bed.

The Abhorsen cleared her throat to gain her nephew's attention, and he looked to her instantly. Even with his interest in the cat, he had quickly learned respect for his mentor, not that he hadn't had it before. "And, Terciel?"

Even called to attention, his gaze still flickered back to Mogget, as if worrying the cat might take this diversion as his cue to exit. He hadn't, not yet, but that only made Terciel more certain he would each time as he looked back and forth. "Yes?"

The Abhorsen sighed, a heavy sigh that he could not decipher, nor pin an emotion to. It was a burdened sigh, and it made him look at her, and only her, cat quite forgotten. "To be Ahorsen might not be all you hoped for."

Her nephew's brow furrowed, quizzical. Contemplative. He did not believe it, that much the Abhorsen was certain, but he valued her words, even if he could not match them together.

She knew he fancied being Abhorsen as someone who saved others, who kept the Old Kingdom safe, who sent the Dead back to Death where they belonged. But it was so much more… difficult than that, in a way she could not describe. It was only something he could learn, when first tested with an impossible decision, when first facing an indirect loss by his own hand.

_Abhorsen_ had taken so much from her nephew already, and it would never be satisfied, not until the time came when he would pass the mantle himself. The guilt she felt for it, she could never measure.

"You will understand," the Abhorsen settled with, her vagueness more palatable with a smile of reassurance. The boy had enough worries to resolve for the time being. "But that's enough for tonight, I should think. To bed with you."

Terciel still sprung to his feet at the dismissal – not tired, but keen to use that newfound freedom to pet a sleeping cat – but at his aunt's announcement, Mogget had vanished altogether. Of course. His shoulders slumped, until he remembered that Mogget could not hide from him forever, and he might fare better tomorrow. Something else to add to the list of things he was to do.

He turned to his aunt, this time entirely focused on her. He debated a bow, but reasoned that would be unwanted… and here, as she had told him before, not needed. "Thank you, aunt. I will try to think of better – more – other questions. Should I… meet you here again, in the morning?"

She did not doubt it. "I don't have a schedule in mind," she said, thoughtfully. "I wanted to see what we are working with, and what you know, as it _has_ been some time since I saw you last. But that is something we can be concerned with over the coming weeks as well. For now, the gong in the kitchen will ring at breakfast, and the Sendings will come for you. Try not to be late." He wondered if she meant in regard to herself, but she soon clarified otherwise, with the smallest of frowns. "They are not so fond of that."

Even she, it seemed, was not beyond the Sendings' whimsy, such as ensuring the House's denizens were fed at least twice daily at optimal times. They probably dragged her unwillingly into baths with upended buckets of sulphurous water, too. 

"I will," he said, a little troubled; he was not an early riser by any stretch. "And – I, I wanted to say that, well… I know that you _have_ to teach me, and taking me in, but I – I'm glad you're here, aunt, for all of it, and I—"

He was half turned toward the door, hesitating before he turned back and approached her chair. The Abhorsen was not so out of practice with people and family to know what he sought and offered, and stood as he reached her, lanky limbs snaking around her middle as he embraced her tightly – like his brief slip when she had asked about his parents, a clear indicator that the seemingly well together child was not actually so.

She embraced him back without a word. He was still so small in height, not reaching past her shoulder if he danced about on tiptoe, but he was equally lanky and his limbs were skewed, likely the result of a recent growth spurt. Though he would be her second and was eager to learn and did not show it outwardly, she would have to remember for him, that he was still young.

That was part and parcel her new role as his guardian, she supposed. 

"You're welcome," she said, not saying any more than that, holding him tight in return for all that she could not.

Terciel was first to pull away, his eyes glossy, though no tears had fallen. "Goodnight, aunt. Breakfast," he added in affirmation. And much learning, after… he didn't know if he would sleep well tonight, but he likely should try sooner rather than later. He could investigate his room and its contents during daytime hours, even if that was likely to be a well meant intent he'd forget in five minutes.

"Breakfast," his aunt agreed. "Goodnight, Terciel."

He left then: alone, no Sending having come to retrieve him, reasonably confident as they likely were that he could find his way back to his room, not so far away.

The Abhorsen settled herself once more in her armchair, pouring the last of the tea, looking at Terciel's untouched cup. She had never asked how he liked it. She had meant to. No matter; it would be something to learn at breakfast, when additives and means to change it were aplenty.

She yawned, more pronounced than she expected as she covered her mouth with her free hand that until then had been reaching for the untouched, unread letters. Even as they called to her, the need to sleep called a little louder as she yawned again, this time her eyes fluttering in the perpetually dimly lit room, Charter symbols winking from the ceiling only increasing her need for slumber.

Maybe a few hours so that she would be more receptive to their contents would be needed, she decided. She could wake early before breakfast and see to them then, with the day dedicated to her nephew, as she had planned. Yes. That would probably do. No message hawk would fly with a response until the morning, at least, and if her services were indeed required immediately, the Sendings would have indicated those messages to her upon arrival, and there had been none.

Reasoning and mind in agreement, she drank the last of her tea and rose from the armchair once more.

Regardless of when, there was much to be doing.


End file.
